


The Door Into Summer

by invisible_doorknob



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, brief angst, trust me - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6563464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisible_doorknob/pseuds/invisible_doorknob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus doesn't want to be separated from Esca.  </p><p>Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Door Into Summer

The snow begins six days past the winter solstice.

It’s nothing new, though it’s rare that the first snow of winter comes in such quantities. Marcus watches its thick fall for a while, resigned, before fastening the door and letting his vision adjust to the dimness of fire and lamplight.

“How bad is it?” Esca asks from his place by the hearth, and Marcus shrugs.

“Bad enough that I’m glad I’m not out in it.” If the fall continues at such a rate, it will be difficult to get to the stables in the morning, but the young twins hired that spring are bedded down there and will have everything in hand.

Esca grunts in agreement, and pulls the jug from the edge of the fire, jerking his chin at the stool across from him. Marcus takes it, easing down slowly with a grunt of his own. Age has stiffened his muscles and swelled his joints, though the dry cold of snow is easier than wetter weather.

Esca pours mulled wine into two mugs and passes one to Marcus, who inhales the spicy steam with pleasure before his first taste. The snow doesn’t worry him; aside from horse-work, they have little to do in winter and less light to do it with, and tend to spend much of their time drowsing in the dark, curled up together as always.

Humming tunelessly, Esca pushes the jug back towards the flames to keep it hot, and sips from his own mug. His hair is all silver now, and his shoulders are bowed from years of hard work, but the lines engraved around his eyes are from laughter, and Marcus still finds him beautiful.

His own hair is half-gone and thickly salted with white; the flat stomach of his youth has softened and grown, and he has lost sight in one eye as it gradually clouded over. Marcus minds that less than the joint-ache--he is not looking forward to the time when he can no longer work.

“You’re thinking too much again.” The jibe is old and familiar, as is the sly curve of Esca’s mouth. “Worried about the twins? Those two will raid the feed bins to make porridge and the dovecote for meat if they need it.”

Marcus shakes his head and drinks again; there isn’t much alcohol left in the wine, but it’s sweet and warming. “I’m just thinking about the future.”

Esca snorts into his mug. “We’ll meet it when it comes,” he says, not for the first time. “There were times enough when we thought we had none, Marcus. If your joints keep you from the heavy work, why, you have done enough already to deserve your rest.”

Marcus frowns, but Esca has already won the argument, several times. Farming and horse-breeding have treated them well, if not gently; they are, by the standards of the villages nearby, wealthy, and can afford to hire all the help they need for as long as they need it. They work because they are used to it--and because Marcus is thrifty enough to want to save coin where they can.

“As usual, you are right,” Marcus says at last, hiding a reluctant smile in his wine when Esca smirks at him. “Still, I should grow bored if I had to stay abed with nothing to do.”

“Oh, as for that, I will stop work myself and keep you warm,” Esca says with a cheerful leer. “I’m sure we would find _something_ to occupy you.”

Marcus laughs. Age has stolen the vigor of youthful lust, but they still find much pleasure in each other’s touch. The long low burn of banked coals can be as fulfilling in its way as a shorter, hotter blaze, after all.

“Come spring, then, perhaps I will lie back and let others do the work.” He swallows more wine, and nearly loses it in a splutter when Esca makes a filthy pun in his own tongue. “Do you kiss the mares with that mouth?”

“They only wish I did.” Esca rubs absently at his chest, and Marcus’ amusement ebbs.

He opens his mouth, but before he can ask Esca shoots him a glare. “It’s nothing, Marcus. Just the winter.”

Marcus bites back his worry and says nothing. It would only precipitate an argument, anyway; the pains that come and go don’t seem to trouble Esca as much as they do Marcus, and Esca will not hear of taking caution.

Still, later, when they are tangled together under the furs, Marcus lies with his eyes open and counts Esca’s slow breaths against his cheek. He doesn’t know what worries him more; Esca’s heart, or the odd confusion that takes his beloved from time to time. So far the episodes have been short and seldom, but Esca is always withdrawn afterwards, and Marcus isn’t sure if Esca is more angry or frightened by his lapses. Age is an implacable foe, and one neither of them can fight for long.

_Time eats us all, in the end._

They have spent far more time together, now, than they ever have apart; they are lover and family and dearest friend to one another, and when Marcus contemplates the inevitable breaking of those bonds, his own heart aches at the mere thought of losing Esca. _It is not the separation itself I fear, but the permanency of it._

They have ever followed two different faiths, Marcus worshiping Mithras first among the gods of Rome and Esca keeping rites for Britain’s mysterious deities. Marcus doesn’t consider himself much of a hero, but as a reasonably virtuous soul he hopes to find the Elysian Fields when death comes for him. He has never inquired into what Esca believes; his friend’s faith is a private thing.

_Though if anyone deserves a place of honor among the dead, it is he, for I know no one who can match him in bravery or compassion._

But Marcus cannot conceive an eternity of bliss without Esca by his side. _Our gods will take us, and our path will split._

He sighs, and closes his eyes at last. There is nothing to be done.

* * *

Cold wakes him. Marcus rolls over to see Esca silhouetted against the window; he has pulled the covering aside and is staring out at something. “What is it?” Marcus mumbles. “You’re letting in the wind--”

Esca whirls, and though Marcus can’t make out his face in the dark, every line of him bespeaks excitement. “Do you not see it, Marcus?” he asks eagerly. “It is summer come at last!”

 _What?_ Marcus sits up, the chill going through him having nothing to do with the cold air. “Esca--” he begins, wondering frantically how to handle the situation. Esca never reacts well to his confused spells.

“On your feet,” Esca says, grabbing Marcus’ hands and tugging him up. “We must go.”

Marcus tries to stop him, but short of physically pinning Esca down, there is no way to do it, and Marcus is no longer sure of winning such a contest. It is all he can do to get Esca to pull on boots and a cloak before he is out the door.

Marcus stumbles after him. The blizzard has died down, though flakes still whirl past on a quiet breeze; the world is masked in snow, and lit with the odd bluish glow that only comes at such times. It is just enough to see by, and Marcus can see nothing out of place anywhere--certainly nothing resembling _summer._

But Esca wades down the path and through the gate as if following a straight line, and Marcus cannot let him go alone.

They cross the road and head up the gentle slope of the near pasture. The footing is rough and the deep snow makes walking difficult, particularly for Marcus’ bad leg, but at his first stumble Esca is by his side, offering his shoulder. “Forgive me, my friend. We can go a little slower--it will not vanish.”

Marcus clasps Esca close, though the smaller man’s pace scarcely slackens. “ _What_ will not vanish? Esca, I can see nothing but the snow.”

Esca looks up at him, puzzled; flakes are clumping on his lashes, and his cheeks are flushed. “But it’s right there, Marcus. Green and warm as the beginning of the world--come, I will show you--”

Marcus cannot stop him. Up the hill they go, through the dizzying whirl of snowflakes, the muffling hush of snow, the cold soughing breath of the wind. Marcus sees only night and winter--a night and winter that will kill them if it can. He is already beginning to shiver.

_We are not too far from home to turn back--love, please, come back to me, out of this dream--_

They crest the hill and start down the other side, slipping and sliding through the snow. It is a sea of blue-white to Marcus’ one eye, now, not even any trees visible, and Marcus tries to slow his steps. Already this spell has lasted longer than any other--if he can just hang on until Esca’s confusion passes...

Abruptly Esca halts, and Marcus almost falls. His toes are numb in his boots, and he can hardly feel his fingers. “Shall we turn back?” he gasps.

Esca doesn’t reply. He steadies Marcus, then lets him go, taking a long step forward, and then another. “Look at it, Marcus. It’s gorgeous,” he says in hushed tones. “So warm! And that air...can you not smell the sweetness?”

Marcus wants to weep. “Esca...Esca, there’s nothing _there._ You _dream_ , love.”

Esca glances back at Marcus, and the flush is gone from his face; his smile is beautiful. “Marcus, I--”

He falls.

Marcus lunges forward. His leg spasms, a spurt of agony, and he stumbles down to his knees, gasping as they hit the frozen ground beneath the snow. But the pain is far away, and he crawls forward, gaze fixed on the still figure that had dropped as if struck.

It seems to take forever to get there, and when he lifts Esca from the snow and turns him in his arms, Marcus knows. He’s held dead men before; brothers fallen in battle, enemies laid low. There is no mistaking the feel of flesh without a soul.

A scream of denial rises up in him, and Marcus chokes it back, clutching Esca’s limp form close. The world empties out around him, leaving nothing but snow and wind.

That is all there is, for a while.

* * *

_His heart. It must have been his heart._

The thought is small and tired and a long time coming, almost smothered beneath grief and the endless silent chant of Esca’s name. Marcus bows his head over his friend, stunned with pain, but the cool practical part of him--the part that had commanded men--speaks.

 _You will freeze soon,_ it says. _Stand up, or you will be too weak to bear his body home._

Slowly, carefully, Marcus lays Esca down in the snow, and pushes to his feet. It takes two tries, and he almost falls again; the slope looms high, and Marcus isn’t at all certain he will be able to make it to the top.

But he will not leave his friend for the cold and the wolves.

Closing his eyes, he wipes melting snow from his face, and braces himself to bend and lift Esca.

 _I will not go without him,_ a voice says, so sharp and clear that Marcus jumps--it seems to speak directly in his ears, but he is alone. His own heart gives a painful squeeze, because it sounds like Esca--Esca, who lies so still, the snow already beginning to cover him. Marcus squints into the wind, silently cursing his blind eye, and sees nothing.

But he _hears_ something. A faint whisper of music, barely discernable but _close_ , as close as the voice. It sounds like the drums and pipes of the Britons, but wild and triumphant as it strengthens, not mournful as their music so often is. It is oddly familiar, as if he has heard it long and long ago.

Marcus turns slowly, seeking the music’s source as it grows, but there is nothing behind him, no one on the slope, nothing--

\--Light. In front of him, a widening gap of _light_. Light, and green, and warmth, and the sweet smell of growing things.

And over the music, the same sharp, impatient, _beloved_ voice. “Come _on_ , Marcus! I’m waiting for you.”

_Esca._

Joy blooms in Marcus’ chest and streams out to every part of him, unbelievable joy as sharp as a blade. He runs forward, pain and clumsiness left behind like a discarded garment, and slips through the gap and into _light_.

It is green, it is summer, it is velvet fields and a sky of crystal. Esca stands before him, hale and whole and grinning fiercely, clasping Marcus’ forearms in his warrior’s grip. Marcus pulls him into an embrace, shaking with the ecstasy of it, and feels it returned.

He does not know how long they hold each other; long enough for disbelief to crumble and vanish, long enough for darkness to ebb away from his soul and leave him free of all sorrow.

“Where are we?” he asks at last, placing a kiss on his beloved’s ear as he asks it.

Esca pulls back enough to return the kiss on Marcus’ lips, solemn and ceremonial. “The Summerlands,” he says. “We are done with winter, Marcus. Now is the time of joy.”

He lets Marcus go, only to lace their fingers together. “Come, there is much to see, and many who want to see us!”

Marcus looks past him to see a small crowd of people coming across the meadow, some singing and all smiling, and there are familiar faces among them. He recognizes his parents and uncle at the same moment he realizes he is seeing with both eyes again.

A yip reaches his ears, a sound of excitement and delight, and a grey form bursts through the crowd and gallops toward them, tongue lolling.

The smile that spreads across his face fills him up, and up, and up. Next to him, Esca laughs with no trace of bitterness, and squeezes his hand.

 _Together_ , Marcus thinks, in perfect joy. _Together_ , _always_.

They step forward to meet those coming.

 

~End~


End file.
